For Want of a Nail
by Scooby Wannabe
Summary: There's a new newsboy in town and he's taking over all the good business. But is this boy all he says he is, or is he hiding dark secrets that will change the lives of all the newsies? THIS IS NOT SLASH!
1. Prologue: Once and For All

**Disclaimer:**  I don't own _Newsies_ or anything related to them.  I just own the plot of this story and my original characters who I won't mention individually for fear of ruining the plot.

**Author's Note:**  This is a little out of my usual style, but the plot bunnies took me over.  Please be nice.  Also, my life is very weird right now (for full details, see my note in _As the World Goes Round_), so I have no clue when this will be updated, but I can promise that it will be finished as soon as my world rights itself.

Also, the title of this story comes from an old proverb I heard once.  It reads:

_For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the message was lost. For want of the message, the battle was lost. For want of the battle, the war was lost. All for the want of a nail._

The cheers echo through the streets of New York.  A first has happened that day, a first that goes out to the millions of people in the city that don't have the easy life.  The poor children of the streets, the newsies, have beaten the business tycoons William Randolph Hurst and Joseph Pulitzer.  The little man, or should I say the little boy, have beaten out the giants.

"It's ovah!  We beat 'em!  Didja hear?"

There is literally rejoicing in the streets.  Laughter, shouts of congratulations.  It even seems that many of the adults who pour all of their own energy out in the sweatshops are delighted for this small yet amazing victory of these children.  Sunshine pours down onto the happy streets, blessing their special day with warmth.

"Dis 'ere's da day for ev'rybody!  We're kings o' da woild!"

A small sniffle across from me tears my gaze away from the energetic bustle going on mere feet away.  I wish so much to be out there, in that warmth and joy.

The alleyway is dark and wet.  It smells of rotten food and urine.  The hard, filth covered stone is cold to the touch, chilling my body as I kneel in the shadows.  The boys across from me are shivering, but still, crying, but silent.  The six year old is panicked, unsure of what to do, but he holds the small toddler in such a supportive grasp, comforting him though he knows little more about what is happening.  I don't know what to do for them, for I'm so lost myself.

I sigh, running my hand tenderly over the top of the head in my lap.  My legs ache from kneeling on the ground for so long.  I guess I really should get up.  It isn't safe here for the boys or me.  The body I hold so dearly went cold long ago, the blood coating my hands becoming harder, stickier.

Sometimes I wonder how my life came to this.  Then I remember the two sounds that began this journey.  Two small explosions, two blasts heralding a new age.  A new age for me.  A new age at sixteen, with the weight of the world on my shoulders…


	2. Chapter One: A New Life

For Want of a Nail by Flutterby

Chapter One:  A New Life

The boarding house was warm and welcoming compared to the dark wet night in the New York City streets.  A small figure stands outside in the night, shivering, staring at the door in trepidation.  At first glance, this figure looks to be a very young boy, around ten or so, not an unusual sight in the streets of New York.  But if anyone were to take a closer look, which would almost never happen, they would see through the small, dirty face and into the world-weary eyes of an older teenager, his physical form diminished from years of malnutrition.

The teen shifted his weight nervously, uncertain of whether he should just go through with his plan or just run.  But he quickly remembered that he had nowhere to run.  There were reasons he had resorted to this.  He wouldn't pray for forgiveness of this.  He knew it was wrong, but he was going to do it anyway.  Shoving aside all of his conflicting emotions, he shifted into a confidant stance and pushed open that dreaded door.

The inside was nice, nicer than anyplace he had been in a good long while.  A flight of stairs along the back wall led upwards towards the unknown.  A few tables lined the sidewall back to the stairs.  There was a front desk that took up most of the right side of the room.  It was setup much like a hotel desk was, mail slots dividing much of the far wall, a door to a personal office wide open.  Papers littered the desk, a very large sign in book being the most predominant item.

An elderly man, much older than most people from the lower class ever dreamed of living, was sitting behind the counter, writing something in an old ledger.  He looked up at the boy as he walked in, eyeing him carefully.

The boy knew he looked the part of a newsboy.  His clothes were perfect.  He was dressed in brown trousers that were extremely big on his small frame.  They were held up by a pair of faded black suspenders.  His once-white-but-now-cream-colored shirt was baggy, but carefully tucked into the large pants.  The vest he wore was also too big, and was roughly the same shade of his pants.  The boots on his feet were scuffed and caked with the slime of the city.  The outfit was completed by a large gray cap.  His own looks were rough from the time spent on the streets.  His face was caked with dirt and grime that never seemed to come off.  His hands were rough, calluses upon calluses.  Greasy red hair poked messily out of the cap at all angles.  Green eyes were tired with wisdom beyond his years.

The elderly man stood and crossed his arms, trying to appear imposing.  "Can I help ya, boy?"

The boy instantly liked this old man.  He was certainly formidable and a force to be reckoned with, but for all the harshness he tried to air, his eyes were soft and kind.  The boy smiled broadly, giving the man a courteous nod.  "Evenin' to ya, sir.  Name's Ryn Malo."

The old man examined the boy more closely, as if trying to decide on something.  "Well, Mr. Malo, interested in a bed?"

"Yes, sir," the boy answered a little too quickly.

The old man wrinkled his brow as he stared at Ryn harder then suddenly relaxed.  He instantly went a bit softer, catching the child's almost unnoticeable shivers.  He grabbed the sign in book, handing it and a pen to the boy.  "My name's Ivan Kloppman.  I own and run this place.  Board is a nickel a night.  Don't like it, ya can sleep in the gutter.  Feed yourself somewhere else, for there will be no meals served here.  Ya sleep here, ya sell papes, specifically the mornin' edition of 'The World'.  There's ta be no liquor here and absolutely no goils.  Problems?"

Ryn quickly signed his name, listening politely to Kloppman as he gave him the house rules.  Once the old man was finished, he shook his head.  "No, sir."

Kloppman's mouth twitched into a small smile.  "You're a real gent, aren't ya, boy?  Well, a nickel and we'll see about that bed."

Ryn dug through his pockets, searching out the elusive five cents.  He counted it out and handed it to Kloppman.  The old man tucked it away into his pocket and emerged from behind the counter.  Motioning for Ryn to follow, he started up the stairs.  "This way."


End file.
